Pages

Wednesday, August 31, 2011

A hardwood fire is spitting and crackling and threatening to shoot holes in the hostas and singe my corneas when I come too close. Grass fed short ribs from Staubitz reclined in a soy bath before hissing and wafting wonderful smells into the Brooklyn evening. Thank you, dear beef.

In Brooklyn slugs get the best, because part of our living-in-Brooklyn contract stipulates that we sell our moist garden pests to the local restaurant (in our case the Henry Street Public) down the road as bar snacks. 90 minute Dogfish Head Indian Pale Ale will tenderise and flavour the gentle creepers. I like slugs, somehow. But when Hurricane Irene passed us without damage she did only one bad thing: all the pots went onto the floor of the terrace, and the slugs that live there suddenly discovered: strawberries; and moved into the pots. And I have noticed ominous holes in the plectranthus and even basil so it's time. Beer trap for the basil-infused slugs.

The good beer, very expensive beer, was an experiment, but we hate it. Neither the Frenchie nor I is a fan of bitter beer. Both of us tend towards lagers and German style weissbrews. We slum it with Miller, or El Presidente, and we loved the Russian No. 5 at the Beach Farm. Deep roasts are just too toasty and overwhelming for us. We know that there are better informed persons out there (specifically on Union Street just north of 7th Avenue) who would disagree vehemently. So, we are weak in some departments.

Tomorrow will reveal what slugs think of the $4 Dogfish Head 90 Minute Imperial IPA. Tomorrow generally reveals a lot. If you took care of today. Or not.

Un assembled banh mi. Do it yourself. Here's the recipe for the filling. In last nights' case, leftover roast chicken was the base). Yes, that is Miller Draft. And that is all I am saying about that. I am not a beer drinker, and I like it.

Tuesday, August 30, 2011

So Gourmet Live, a rather lovely Conde Nast website, risen from the ashes of Gourmet, writes to ask me for permission to use a photograph of mine, of an heirloom tomato, as their featured Image of the Day. There it is, up there. In return I would get a link to 66 Square Feet. Fine, I thought, I'd love to. Nice site, rubbing shoulders with good things. Will do.

Oh, but there's the question of the release form I must sign. So I read it.

Here it is (underlining is mine). Read the first paragraph:

As we discussed, GourmetLive would like to publish your photograph(s) of . This letter will confirm your agreement that we may publish the photograph(s), and that any publication or republication by GourmetLive or anyone authorized by GourmetLive of the article or other material with which the photograph(s) are published, in any media now in existence or hereafter developed, may include the photograph(s). The photograph(s) may also be used in the advertising and promotion of GourmetLive and its information products and services. GourmetLive may retouch, crop, or otherwise alter the photograph(s) for publication, in its discretion.

You represent and warrant that you created the photograph(s) and/or that you are authorized to allow us to use the photograph(s) as provided herein, and that our publication of the photograph(s) will not infringe any third party’s copyright or other rights. No contrary or inconsistent terms, conditions, restrictions, or other provisions in delivery memos, invoices, letters or other documents will be binding on GourmetLive unless expressly agreed to in writing by GourmetLive.

We understand that this grant of permission is non-exclusive, that you may authorize others to use the photograph(s), and that no fee will be due for the use of the photograph(s).

So that our files are complete, please sign and return the copy of this letter that is enclosed. Thank you for your consideration.

Uh...seriously?

So I wrote back saying I can swallow this all but may we make one small change and add that the photographer shall be given credit for any possible future use of this image?

The response, from the friendly-sounding Allison Poindexter:

Unfortunately we can not allow changes to the agreement. This is the same agreement that every blogger has to sign when they are featured on the blog. Let me know if we can still feature the image, otherwise, thank you so much for you interest.

So, it appears that bloggers get their own agreement, and sign their photos over, for free, for any hypothetical future use, sans credit. Because they are...just bloggers? What if you are blogger who is a photographer? Actually, does that matter? No. The principle does.

And it wasn't my interest. You guys approached me.

So I thought a bit. Pros, cons, exposure. Then I realized, Wait! I 'm behaving as though I am being blackmailed. Because the truth is that bloggers - and increasingly all entities working on their own - are scared of making a noise about this. Because then the big website won't like them. Or link to them, or ask them to write a story for them. So they say nothing, wag their tails, and lick the bone tossed at them.

Enough.

Where do you draw the line?

So I wrote back:

Much as I love Gourmet Live, under the circumstances I can't sign my image over to you for any and every use (as implied in your release), with no compensation or credit given in such use. I earn my living by my images and words. So do many others. When images are signed over for nothing, for your gain and free use, they become worthless.

If it were only for a one time use on your website I would have no issue with it. But the release you require is unreasonable and exploitative. I say that objectively, no ill will intended. I trust you understand.

I consider Gourmet a class act. It would be worth your while to re-visit the wording of that release, and not issue a one-size-fits all. It doesn't reflect well on you.

Small concessions. Respect for good work. Integrity. Give a little, take a little.

I was willing to share that tomato. But I realize that it is, in fact, mine.

Thoughts?

_______________________________________9/2/11: Thank you for everyone's input (and encouragement). I may take this farther - not with Gourmet Live but the issue itself. If anyone has been approached via their blogs or Flickr, or Facebook, etc., for photo usage by publications, please get in touch; whether the terms were for free (no terms!), for a link or whether payment was offered. I'd like to start taking notes, and names.

My phone rang while I was choosing plums on the sidewalk outside Mr Lee's. It was Vince, recently emerged from the subway and asking whether I needed anything. I told him where I was. And as I left the store with my plums, nectarines, figs and fresh bunch of dill, he was waiting for me on the sidewalk. Something about seeing him there was a lot like seeing him for the first time, at Newark International Airport, in September 2007. Perhaps because he was wearing black, then, too. Taller, slimmer than I had expected, and with broader shoulders. The broad shoulders are especially helpful.

We wandered our usual stretch, picking up gin for evening cocktails, an organic chicken, some leaves for salad, and then walked home, where we set the post hurricane terrace and roof to rights...

The cat liked the new, old arrangement. He has not been able to get out for days, as the terrace was clogged with pots.

Some strawberries were sent to the roof, to make more space, here. Later the pots were steadied on their pot-feet and nifty corks.

And then we had big, fat drinks on the silvertop, and discussed the state of things.

Mine was a Paintbrush, his a martini. Later we ate roast chicken (the first in...all of summer?) stuffed with herbs, and tomatoes stuffed* with rice, dill, etc. Fig and wild arugula salad. Plums for dessert.

Monday, August 29, 2011

A brief email just informed me that my next piece for ShelterPop would also be my last, running next Sunday. ShelterPop is being merged into StyList. I had been expecting it, in a superficial, sound bite, let's rile the populace, multiple hit media world, but it does not make the abrupt change or the serial killing of real-information writing fro real pay any easier to swallow.

This merge follows the bloodbath earlier in the year when The Huffington Post acquired AOL and hundreds of employees and freelancers lost their jobs. Over the last eighteen months I have seen two of my - excellent - editors move on to other things, ahead of the changes, and perhaps I should have bailed, then. An email to that current, wage-delivering, idea-engaging editor, just bounced right back. A little googling revealed that she left abruptly, too.

Ahead of Irene, I cut down all the tomatoes and took out the cucumbers. With words like "dire! unprecedented! lethal!" being bandied about by meteorologists, and the prospect of 80mph winds, I didn't want to leave the pots on the roof in their top-heavy state. So, once that eggplant up there is ready, and the remaining peppers picked, that's it. Over. Fat lady has sung.

How can that be? Last September the little roof farm was winning blue ribbons. (That harvest festival will not be repeated. It seem it was a one off stunt, and not worth the bother again for the organizers. A pity - it was a great way to get to know other growers in the area. The food was good. It was f u n.)

Now look at it. Scrappy and ratty. I must plant something. Leaves, of course. But what else? From seed? The microgreens, yes. But what about pretty kale? Spinach?

Sunday, August 28, 2011

Well, she blew by. We were up on the roof somewhere in the wee hours, maybe sometime after 3, as something was rolling around and I thought a satellite dish had worked itself loose. A gust must have blown whatever it was off before I got up there with a flashlight. I found nothing.

Now, dry air, tugging wind, a collapsed New Dawn rose, but otherwise it is all over. We have a bathful of clean water. Maybe I'll snorkel in it.

Here are some pictures of the neighbourhood from yesterday evening. Waiting for Irene.

Saturday evening, Court Street. The difference between men and women before a hurricane. The barbershop is deserted, the barbers are sleeping.

The nail salon down the road is hopping. We shall not go into this good night without impeccable pedicures!

Sushi shop on Henry and Pacific took no chances.

Pastry shop bulls eye. Aim storm here. I read in The Times that taping windows is a bad idea? Why? They didn't say.

Restaurant chairs. The were brought in after I took the picture.

Dude, it's closed. A last minute shopper finds Trader Joe's closed.

We'll venture out into the world now after our very late start. I'm not sure what time I went to sleep...More later. I think watching Irene on television must have been more frightening than the real thing, but that is the nature of the beast...

The drink that I shook up for Vincent (I had red wine) on Saturday evening. I call it a Baybreaker.

There is some fear that 'the ocean will meet the bay' at high tide - around 7.30am in that area - on Sunday. The ocean being the Atlantic on the east side of the narrow, sandy string of barrier islands off Long Island: Fire Island, Long Beach, Jones Beach, the Rockaways; the bay being Great South Bay, Reynolds Channel and Jamaica Bay, on the landward side. This would of course flood many homes, parks, and also a beach farm we are are rooting for.

So here's one in your eye, Irene.

A Baybreaker is northern bayberry-infused gin (the leaves and berries picked off the dunes in the Rockaways themselves), with dry vermouth and a little juice from pickled field garlic, gathered in April in Inwood. Strong juju...

Today, we sit at home in airconditioning twiddling our thumbs and waiting for our hurricane (zzzzz). The air outside is like hot, soggy cotton wool. The big shops are closing, the subway has shut down. Only corner stores and small concerns remain open. Mr Lee's (as we refer to our vegetable/fruit shop) is raking it in.

The cat mewing in the background of the video is not frightened, he is hungry. It is dark and that must mean dinner time to a one-track-minded feline. Strangely, he is not afraid either of thunder or of fireworks, being a cat of his times, perhaps, his bodega upbringing in Manhattan accustoming him to both.

Note the fig tree in its storm position, of the edge and on top of the braai.

Bottled waterCharge phone, radio and camera batteriesExtra candles (mood lighting)All pots down from terrace sides onto terrace floorSecure climbing rosesTomatoes and tepees on roof cut down and cages removedLoose glass from neighbor's roof removedBatten down the skylight hatchWaterproof the cat(with butter)Eat at Al di La before the Gowanus is unpassableWithdraw cashTake pictures of hurricane shopping linesFill bath with water for flushing in case of water issuesBuy hurricane menu ingredientsStock up on wine

Happy Hurricane, everyone. I'm itching to see the action: all low-lying areas under mandatory evacuation, but alas, we will stay put (hear that, Mommy? Moenie worry nie). It's going to be crazy enough with subways, buses and trains shutting down altogether starting at noon tomorrow.

Pots down

Updates:

7.29pm - all city beaches are closed. Starting tomorrow, Central Park, Prospect Park, zoos, all state parks and all* farmers markets will be closed. All Broadway shows canceled Saturday and Sunday.

Thursday's Borough Hall Farmers' Market. Wilklow Orchards' tomatoes, fresh from the Hudson River Valley. It was muggy, raining intermittently, my hair was frizzing, my chin sweating, in other words, the return of August.

I had to buy one of each. Which was not cheap. But I had to, just once.

Now, what to do with them? Heirloom consommé, turned into a jelly? Stuffed again with rice and dill and pine nuts and currants? Or should I eat them one at time, raw, to understand the flavour of each? What would you do?

I also found a huge bunch of lush purslane for $2.50, so that became supper, the leaves cooked in a slow lamb curry, with more, raw leaves in yogurt. I bought a puny, stunted bunch of dill (thinking about stuffed tomatoes) from the same stall for $1.50. Funny price comparison.

Friday, and the hurricane cometh. I want to see it from the beach. Vince says maybe (he knows hurricane better than I do, being an ex-islander).

Thursday, August 25, 2011

This evening's pickings. I will probably yank some of the tomatoes tomorrow, ahead of Irene. Take down the tepees, secure the rooftop pots, hustle the beaded sheep to shelter, remove all the pots from the edges of the terrace, just in case.

I knew about Green-wood Cemetery, or at least that it existed, and was big, and that Frank and Betsy had said we must visit, and that it is mentioned in birding blogs, and that in spring it is full of flowers. I was not prepared for the scale of it, nor its depth of field, nor its endless green grass and hills, nor, especially, its very beautiful trees. Old trees. Nor even that to get there all we had to do was ride the R two stops farther than usual. One becomes so used to habit and pattern that an entire world can be missed. Everyone should ride the subway two stops farther, and then get out, and see what happens.

It did not hurt, either, that I fell over some mushrooms with two minutes of entering its gates and walking up its imposing drive.

A storm was coming. After spending some time with the green parrots and the mushrooms we went farther in, through the massive archway - we had entered from the 5th Avenue (Brooklyn!) side, and up a steep hill between appropriate yew trees.

It is going to be breathtaking in the fall.

Other than us, no living souls were abroad.

Hearing the rumbling from the purple clouds gathering in force to the south, we turned around early. The storm caught us at the gate, opening the sky all at once, and we ran. Within two blocks we were back in the subway, soaking.

We need more time to explore, next time, and will head back when the leaves have started to turn. Perhaps we'll find where Leonard Bernstein is and have a picnic with him.

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

Brandywine from the roof, baguette from Sahadi's, basil from the terrace. Bread briefly toasted then rubbed with a clove of garlic, tomato piled on, salt and pepper, basil, a drip of olive oil. Tasted like the perfect middle point of perfect summer afternoon, where nothing else matters beyond the next bite.

Tuesday, August 23, 2011

First the chair shook, then it went on shaking, then I heard the building creaking and realized it was all going back and forth. Bits of plaster fell from the skylights.

I immediately blamed the major construction across the road and thought of sinkholes, and stuffed the howling cat in his pet carrier.

At 1.55pm I emailed our landlord:Brian, our building is shaking. May be construction across the road. No exaggeration. Shaking.

I grabbed clothes, found my wallet and passport, and all the while the creaks and cracklings continued in the roof and walls. Creepy. Called 311. Line busy, and then realized the shaking had stopped. My hands were trembling.

5.9

The real thing must be awful. Brian felt it, too. For once, tenant and landlord have bonded.

Imperceptible. Just the other day we could picnic up here at 8 o'clock and see everything well. Now it is dusk before the hour.

On the roof, you can smell the strawberries.

The cherry tomatoes, especially Lemon Drop, still do well. But the bushes are blighted.

The light disorients me. It does not belong to summer. Times are changing. Falls plans are being laid. How to arrest what is perfect, to extend the lovely, impede the awful and prevent the inevitable? With the light come the questions.

Afterwards in the street, she looks around the neighborhood. "Yes, it is certified now."

She refers to a phenomenon of moviegoing which I have called certification. Nowadays when a person lives somewhere, in a neighborhood, the place is not certified for him. More than likely he will live there sadly and the emptiness which is inside him will expand until it evacuates the entire neighborhood. But if he sees a movie which shows his very neighborhood, it becomes possible for him to live, for a time at least, as a person who is Somewhere and not Anywhere."

The Moviegoer, Walker Percy

The garden paths were lit by coloured lamps, as is the custom in Italy, and the supper table was laden with candles and flowers, as is the custom in all countries where they understand how to dress a table, which when properly done is the rarest of all luxuries.

Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo

One of the new things people began to find out in the last century was that thoughts - just mere thoughts - are as powerful as electric batteries, as good for one as sunlight is, or as bad for one as poison.

Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Secret Garden

If we had a keen vision of all that is ordinary in human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow or the squirrel's heart beat, and we should die of that roar which is the other side of silence.

George Eliot, Middlemarch

(Mrs Cadwallader to Dorothea)

"I know it's a great temptation to go mad, but don't go in for it, you wouldn't like it."

George Eliot, Middlemarch

"A is for dining Alone...and so am I, if a choice must be made between most people I know and myself. This misanthropic attitude is one I am not proud of, but it is firmly there, based on my ever-increasing conviction that sharing food with another human being is an act that should not be indulged in lightly."

MFK Fisher, The Art of Eating

What he loved in horses was what he loved in men, the blood and the heat of the blood that ran with them. All his reverence and all his fondness and all the leanings of his life were for the ardenthearted and they would always be so and never be otherwise.

Cormac McCarthy, All the Pretty Horses

I was planning on writing about a woman for 50 years. I will never be competent enough to do so, but at some point you have to try.

Richard Chaston (1620-1695). Chaston wrote that men and fairies both contain within them a faculty of reason and a faculty of magic. In men reason is strong and magic is weak. With fairies it is the other way round: magic comes very naturally to them, but by human standards they are barely sane.

Susanna Clark, Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell

No method nor discipline can supersede the necessity of being forever on the alert. What is a course of history or philosophy, or poetry, no matter how well selected, or the best society, or the most admirable routine of life compared with the discipline of looking always at what is to be seen?